


Sacrament

by darthpumpkinspice



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Canon What Canon, Drabble, F/F, Mirror Universe, Oral Sex, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29597442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: Kilana defies the Founders.
Relationships: Mirror Philippa Georgiou/Kilana
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> so uh, i have no idea where this would even begin to fit in the chronology or canon of disco or ds9. this fic is... very nonsensical! I mostly just wanted to see the Mirror Emperor and Kilana interact haha! i do hope ya'll enjoy this little ficlet though - i had a ton of fun writing it!

Once Kilana worshipped other, heathen gods: impure beings, unworthy of her devotion. But this god, the god she has chosen for herself, is golden and furious like a destructive sun. She is beautiful in a way even Kilana’s weakened, aesthetically blind eyes can comprehend: her beauty is the beauty of nature in its purest, most vicious form – the savage beauty of a hatha cat ripping its prey to shreds, the violent beauty of a tidal wave remaking a shoreline.

Kilana’s god sprawls herself over her throne – won by force, hers by right of conquest and bloodshed – and Kilana approaches her proudly, chin tilted up and eyes fixed upon hers. She does not shrink from the coal-hot gaze of the Emperor or cower before her, her arms outstretched in humble worship, as she once would’ve done. She has evolved past what she once was, she has burned away her old weakness in the way a wildfire eradicates the detritus and rot of the forest. She is no longer a mere servant.

She is a _consort_ now, and upon her brow sits a crown of jade and silver. It is so light as to be almost insubstantial, but Kilana has never once forgotten its presence. It is a marker of her power. A sign to all who might look upon her – at her clouded lavender eyes, the pleasing, genetically engineered softness of her form, the telltale ridged ears that crawl down to her jaw – and think of her as a slave. The crown is a succinct rebuttal to any such assumptions. It says _I will never be shackled again_. She has been freed from the dogma that ensnared her predecessors; she has cut out her old fidelity to the Dominion like a surgeon would excise infected tissue. 

A bit of mangled metal dangles between her breasts – the carved-away remnants of the termination implant the Founders had lodged deep in her brainstem in their endless quest to exert unlimited control over her people. It pleases Kilana to wear it as a necklace. To turn the last scrap of her bondage into a pretty accessory. And it amuses her god.

Her god plays with it later that night, when they are alone. She brings it to her lips and sucks it into her mouth, then lets it fall back onto Kilana’s sternum, warm and wet with her saliva. Kilana shivers and her god stares at her – her eyes smoldering with a dark intensity. That is all it takes – a single look. Her heart begins to pound frantically and the fresh swell of heat in her chest flows smoothly down to her belly. It ripples there for a few moments, anticipation fluttering like a songbird wings in her stomach, and then drops lower still, coming to rest between her legs. Her god reaches out to stroke down the curve of her ear, caressing down her jaw and then circling her thumb around Kilana’s parted lips.

“Philippa,” she gasps out, arching up shamelessly into her touch.

Her Emperor chuckles, and takes her by the hips, sliding a thigh between Kilana’s legs. “Not _god_ tonight?” She smirks as Kilana grinds herself against the offered thigh, already wet. “A shame. I always enjoy that game….”

She lets Kilana rub herself off against her, cooing faint praise and kissing along her ear, lapping and nipping at the sensitive outer ridges in a way that electrifies Kilana, sending waves of ecstasy undulating along her skin. It is not long before Kilana comes – her pleasure was designed with efficiency in mind, the Vorta’s capacity for orgasm was engineered as a method of stress relief: intended to be brief and unsentimental. She was not built for love-making, not made for prolonged sexual contact of her own volition. It excites her to defy her old gods, to spit in the face of their archaic restrictions by sinking to her knees and unclasping Philippa’s golden armor.

She situates herself between her Emperor’s thighs, as quickly and eagerly as if she was embarking on a holy pilgrimage. She looks up with pleading eyes, and Philippa gives the faintest nod in response to the silent request. Her god never yields but permission is granted, and Kilana dips her head, flicking out her tongue to explore the offered sacrament that is the Emperor’s body. Kilana’s sense of taste has been stolen from her just as cruelly as the Founders take anything, but she derives her pleasure from the experience in the ways that she still can. She savors the outpouring of warmth between Philippa’s legs, the slickness of her folds, the way her body responds as Kilana’s tongue begins to dance around her clit. Philippa’s thighs clench as the tip of Kilana’s tongue lightly grazes it, whipcord muscles flexing, and Kilana takes this as an invitation to press her lips to it, sucking gently as she moves a hand up to curl two fingers inside of her. 

Philippa’s cunt tightens and pulses around her fingers as they begin to move in earnest, and she places a firm hand to the nape of Kilana’s neck, keeping her steady as she begins to grind herself against the mouth and fingers around her and inside her. The Emperor burns with power, transcendent in all of her glory, all of her self-made godhood. It is like touching a storm - like fucking a hurricane.

Her god comes with a low cry, gasping out _“Kilana”_ in a voice that sounds almost rapturous, and Kilana decides that every moment of her life has been worth it - every hardship endured, every sacrifice made – if only to witness this god of war lose herself to Kilana’s touch.

She has exchanged an eternity of bowing and scraping before false idols for a single life worshipping a woman who has carved out her own divinity with nothing more than her own ruthless cunning and brutal strength. Kilana presses a kiss to the inside of Philippa’s thigh as the Emperor strokes through her hair, and she thinks that it was more than a fair trade.


End file.
